


little boys got a lot to remember

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Family Dynamics, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, period-typical underage marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: According to the extras in volume 5/Japanese volume 9... there's a middle sister, and I have thought of her for two months now.
Relationships: Olmar & Thorgil & Ketil's Daughter (Vinland Saga), Olmar & Thorgil (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	little boys got a lot to remember

**Author's Note:**

> _I wish I didn't have to try so hard  
>  But little boys got a lot to remember_  
>    
> _The world was so big and I was so small_  
>  _Your voice was always the loudest of all_  
>   
>  —Miracle Legion, "The Backyard"  
> 

**_5 / 8 / 11_ **

  
When Olmar hears the word "village" in stories and fairy tales, it always sounds like a small place, where people live up close to each other and are always running into each other. Some of the kids on the farm have parents who came from faraway places, and they talk about their old homes sometimes when they're gathered together. "Our little village," they always say. But the thing people call a village around here isn't little at all. Once you get off the land Dad uses himself, all the buildings are spread out way apart, and there's no area in the middle for people to gather the way they do around water or in front of doors on the farm. Just a lot of space to wander through.

Olmar doesn't like walking around between the houses alone, and he's not supposed to, either. Not without a guard. But the other kids all do it, and Thorgil and Roskva do it too. So he has to do it sometimes, usually when they're both gone and he doesn't know what to do with himself. He hates how big everything is. The farm keeps getting bigger, too, but at least that's mostly fields he's supposed to keep out of until he's older. Out here there's still trees around everywhere, and you can just barely see each house from the next. It always feels like someone could sneak up on him any second. Usually his big brother, who thinks it's really funny that he can see Olmar before Olmar sees him.

This time it's Roskva who sneaks up on him. He doesn't jump, much, because she doesn't make a bunch of noise like Thorgil always does. She has something clutched in one hand, which she holds out to him like they're sharing a secret.

"See that boy over there, with the dark hair. He flipped my skirt up. Go teach him a lesson and I'll give you this." She points behind her to a couple of boys who are doing that thing where you walk near each other, but not with each other.

Olmar doesn't know why flipping up a girl's skirt is bad, exactly, but he knows you're not supposed to do it. It has something to do with how Roskva has to sneak around even more than he does when she goes out. (Thorgil's pretty much allowed to go where he wants.) But he hardly ever beats anybody at swords unless their mommy or daddy is making them be nice. Because of who Dad is.

"What is it?"

"It's whale meat," she says importantly. "This lady was cooking some outside her house. She said I could have some."

When that happens it's because of who Dad is, too. Olmar used to think it happened to everyone, but he's a lot smarter now. There's a whole bunch of people in the village, but people remember his face, and they remember his brother and his sister.

"What's a whale?"

"It's a really big fish. The biggest kind there is. It's really hard to catch."

Olmar hesitates. He eats a lot of fish. "What's it taste like?"

"Go beat him up and you'll find out." His sister pushes his shoulder impatiently and Olmar stumbles over towards the boy with the dark hair.

He doesn't know all the workers on the farm or their kids, but he's pretty sure this boy isn't from the farm. He must be from one of the houses out here where they only work for Dad a little bit. Roskva says they starve sometimes and have to beg Dad for food, and that's why he's so important in the village. But this boy's grey eyes don't look like he's worried about starving. In his right hand he's holding some kind of bun, and at his left side is a wooden sword like Olmar has. He looks older, and he's definitely taller.

Olmar licks his lips nervously, forcing his trembling hand down to the hilt of his sword. "Do you, um, wanna fight?"

The boy with dark hair looks at him without interest. "No," he says, not raising the bun to his mouth. "‘M eating."

"Oh," says Olmar. "Okay."

The other boy doesn't look at him at all, and the two of them go on walking without Olmar or his sister. Maybe they're brothers and one of them has to take the other one somewhere. Or maybe they're friends who are bored with each other.

Roskva kicks him in the back of the leg and he turns around, looking at the ground and trying not to be relieved to let go of his sword.

"You can keep it," he says, dispirited. "Or give it to Thorgil. I bet he'd teach him a lesson."

"Oh, he didn't do anything." Roskva shoves the meat into his chest with a scoff. "I just wanted to see if you had it in you." She doesn't have to add that he didn't.

The whale leaves a stain on his tunic, and it feels bloody and gross between his teeth. He ends up tossing it away, into one of the hundreds of little ditches between the houses that no one ever looks into. The village is too big, and Olmar doesn't like being alone any more than he likes meeting people out here, but he's glad to have some time by himself to spit the taste of blood out of his mouth.

* * *

_**7/10/13** _

"I can barely tell you from the table." Thorgil's standing in the doorway looking at them, his sword hanging off his side. He's just recently allowed to wear it around the farm, and it still drags a little awkwardly when he walks. "Stack some apples on your head and you'll be twins."

"Don't be mean," Roskva says, fastening the cape on. It droops to one side.

"He's right," Olmar says. The cape feels like a tablecloth, not something you're supposed to wear. She got the fabric all wrong and she must've done the pattern while she was looking at some of Mom's old cloths you're supposed to hang on things to keep them clean.

"No, he's not, you look precious."

"I don't wanna look precious either!" Olmar tries to squirm the cape off with renewed energy. He hates looking precious, or cute, or anything his sister wants him to look.

"It's you or one of the farmhands' boys," Roskva says, holding him tight by the shoulders. Her grip's not much more gentle than Thorgil's, and she's still bigger than Olmar, so he subsides. "I don't want them getting fleas all over my hard work."

"But I don't want girl cooties all over _me_."

"You're covered with girl cooties every day of your life." Roskva is serene and sure of herself. "Who do you think makes your clothes? _Men?_ You'd all be walking around naked if women weren't working themselves blind making your nice clothes." Thorgil scoffs from the doorway and she turns to him. "You too! Don't make that face at me. You're both crawling with girl cooties."

"Well, yours are extra gross," Olmar says, taking advantage of her distraction to wriggle away and make for the door. The cape's fastener is so badly made that it drops onto the ground, and he stomps on it as he runs, sending it flying back and making his sister shriek.

"You little beast!"

Olmar hides behind Thorgil and peeks out at her. He knows he's safe here. Their big brother is thirteen and taller than both of them, and he's never going to take Roskva's side now that she's made it about being a _girl_. "Your cooties are gross and you can't even make clothes that stay on!"

"You tell her, Olmar," says Thorgil. Olmar grins and sticks his tongue out.

"At least I'm learning something new! All you do is swing your dumb sword around the same way every single day!"

"Practice drills!" Thorgil snaps. "That's how you're supposed to use a sword. Meanwhile the wool you're putting to waste was more useful on the sheep."

"I hope you get eaten by pigs!" Roskva screams as Olmar starts to creep away. "Both of you!"

"I'll just feed 'em your cooking and they'll shit themselves to death first." Thorgil outpaces him immediately and Olmar has to hurry to keep up with him. 

Behind them, Roskva shrieks again, wordless this time. Olmar's glad not to be one of the slaves. They're gonna have a hard couple of days. He reaches out, being careful not to trip over his own feet, and manages to grab the back of his brother's tunic.

"Can we play?" He doesn't have anything to do, now.

"Lay off, kid," Thorgil says, annoyed suddenly. "I'm too old to play. Dad's got me working my arse off on _your_ farm until I can get out of here."

Olmar looks up longingly at the sword Thorgil's starting to pop in and out of its scabbard, for the cool thumping sound it makes. "You can have the farm if you want it."

"Keep it. Shit, you couldn't pay me to run this place."

"I don't wanna run it, either."

"Don't worry too much," says Thorgil. "Dad'll be hanging onto the reins till you're about forty."

Thorgil doesn't really like having a home. He just wants to get away from all of them as soon as he can. Olmar kind of wants that sometimes too, but it'd be nice if it was a little easier to want.

* * *

**_8 / 11 / 14_ **

  
"Somebody," Thorgil, says very evenly, "got my sword out of the scabbard and left it a little blunter than it's supposed to be." It sets Olmar's skin prickling with terror. "Anybody in here got any leads on that?"

"Absolutely none," Roskva says, just as evenly, from the big jar she's spooning berries out of.

She's learning how to ferment them in honey. Mom thinks berries are a waste of time when it's just family around, so Roskva's been bullying the slaves into showing her how. It's mostly just leaving them alone for a few days, but she's a lot better at cooking than she is at weaving, so Olmar's been hanging around the barn she's hiding them in, to make sure he's there to test the results.

The berries and the honey are both stolen. Roskva says it doesn't count as stealing if it's from your own family, but she keeps giving Olmar more and more, to make sure the evidence is all gone and she can get the jar washed out and put back before it's missed.

"I wasn't really talking to you." A little less even.

"You leave him alone." Roskva's always quick to snap when she thinks Thorgil's bullying him. This time it comes as a relief.

"Yeah, leave me alone." Olmar kicks his legs back and forth on his chair. They're almost starting to reach the ground. He's pretty sure he didn't leave anything behind that points to him, so he should be fine as long as he doesn't collapse under pressure now.

Of course, he was pretty sure the sword was fine when he put it back. He should've known his brother would notice the tiniest change. He's kind of in trouble for two things right now, because the berries and the honey are both stolen. Roskva says it doesn't count as stealing if it's from your own family, but she keeps giving Olmar more and more, to make sure the evidence is all gone and she can get the jar washed out and put back before it's missed.

"Go pick somebody to punish. It doesn't matter who, as long as the one who blunted your sword sees it." Roskva scrapes the wooden spoon against the rim of the jar. He can't tell if she's actually doing something, or just making noise.

"And learns he can get away with it."

Olmar can feel Thorgil looking at him and he lowers his head to avoid his gaze. The back of his neck keeps burning even with his forehead nearly down on the edge of the trough he's eating out of.

"So he'll do it again and be less careful!" Roskva shoots back. "And then you'll have him. So what's the problem?"

"The problem is my sword being blunt when I might need it any second. A warrior needs to know what condition his weapon's in."

"Nobody would ask for _your_ help even if there were someone to fight."

The guests might not ask for Thorgil's help, but he'd give it. And they wouldn't make him leave. Olmar's pretty sure of that. And he's completely sure that Roskva really, really, shouldn't tweak him about it, because when it comes to this one thing—

"You got anything to offer me," asks Thorgil in his new voice, deeper than the deep one that came in with his beard, "or are you two gonna be the usual waste of my fucking time?"

— _he gets mad._

"You're the one who came storming in here. If you want to leave, no one's stopping you. We don't need you anymore than the farm does."

She knows it makes him mad. She knows and she doesn't care. Olmar squeezes his elbows down into the curve of the trough and his knees up against the bottom, as if it doesn't count as curling up into a ball if he has something to stop the circle from completing.

"Maybe it was me."

 _"You?"_ Thorgil's voice sounds like he might actually believe it—Olmar can't really tell. He's not sure he believes she's saying it himself. "You touched my sword?"

"I might have. I think I have a right to, as the most valuable item on the farm."

"You think you—either of you—is worth more to Dad than me? Hell, the two of you are such a drain on this place I can barely make up for you."

It feels like someone's holding a lit branch up to Olmar's spine. The two of them are twin suns behind him, and if he turns around he's going to go blind.

"I'm an asset."

"You're a _girl_."

"I'm going to be married to someone important, and make connections for the farm. You're going off somewhere to mess around with your sword just like you do here. Who do you think Dad's more concerned about?"

"Speaking of Dad, he's the one who paid for this sword. If someone's been careless with it, maybe he needs to know."

Roskva's scoff says everything, but she keeps talking anyway. "Sure, and tell him you left that nice expensive sword lying around where anyone could grab it. Nice return on his investment."

Olmar doesn't know why they won't just be quiet, both of them. Thorgil's the one who makes fun of _him_ for tattling, he's never going to take it to Dad and they all know it. They're just fighting because they want to be fighting. Because they want to fight somebody who can fight back and they know that isn't Olmar.

"What are you going to do about it if I did?" Roskva asks. "Beat your sister?"

Olmar's whimper sounds very loud in the silence, to him. But he doesn't turn around, for fear of the way they might be looking at him, or looking at each other. He hopes they didn't hear it. He hopes they forgot he even exists. He hates having a brother and a sister. He hates having a family, and he hates living on this stupid horrible farm.

Then Thorgil snorts, loud. "Why should I bother? You're Dad's problem. He and your husband can handle discipline."

A big quiet space opens up in the world behind Olmar's back. He doesn't have the nerve to sit back up until he hears Roskva by his shoulder, rattling the big spoon around in the jar that's almost too small to fit it.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

"Was it you?" His sister drops another spoonful of berries into the trough in front of him. "I just wanted him out of here. He's so full of himself lately."

If Thorgil's full of himself, he has a right to be. That sword's so heavy Olmar can barely lift it. It just dragged around on the ground no matter what he tried doing. But with more berries at stake, Olmar doesn't feel like saying anything about that.

* * *

**_9 / 12 / 15_ **

"Keep bothering her as much as you want," Thorgil tells Olmar. "Dad won't have to pay as much if she gets wrinkles."

Messengers have been going back and forth all year with some other rich family far away. Dad and Mom are getting Roskva married.

"I'm not getting wrinkles," Roskva objects, dropping the necklace she's been polishing for about a week and patting her forehead anxiously. "But he'd pay any amount even if I did, because I'm the one with people skills in this family."

"Oh, yeah, I bet. How many cows're you up to now, twenty?"

"I'm worth fifty," she says, tossing her long hair. She's not joking, is the thing.

Thorgil roars and Olmar grins as much as he dares to. They both laughed really hard together when she said that during the first meeting. Dad made them all leave after that, which was fine with Olmar even though Roskva wouldn't talk to either of them for a week. Dad only had them there in the first place to show off how tall Thorgil's getting, so the other family knows Roskva will have strong sons. Olmar doesn't stand out that much compared to other boys his age, so there's no point to him being there. Except proving Dad and Mom aren't ashamed of him.

"Do you think my babies'll be cuter than he was?" Roskva's looking at him, suddenly fretful. "Oh, I _do_ want cute babies."

"They'd just about have to be." Thorgil switches sides effortlessly.

Olmar wants to ask why they're teaming up now, when Thorgil laughed at her way harder than he did, but he knows why. It's because he's the dumb baby who's gonna be stuck here his whole life. He's still not allowed to touch anything more than a wooden sword, and Dad even takes that away sometimes when he hits people with it.

"I hope you have the ugliest babies ever," Olmar says, wiping his eyes furiously with one arm—it makes it look he's crying already and he's _not_ —

"Aw, sweetie." Roskva's arms are around him, smelling like inside and not like the barns where she used to play with him sometimes when he was really little and no one else would. Olmar's seen mothers do this sometimes. "Don't let him bother you. You have plenty of other good qualities."

"I hope they look like gross frogs, and I hope they all grow up and they hate you for making them so ugly."

Thorgil laughs again. "You're right. The charming personality makes up for so much."

"And you!" Olmar says, bursting with righteous indignation. "I hope you... you..."

Thorgil leans the heel of his hand against Olmar's forehead, holding him and Roskva both at arm's length. It's the closest they've been in a while, the three of them together like this. His brother's eyes are shining suddenly, with an interest that should be exciting.

"Yeah? What do you hope, Olmar? You want me to get my head chopped off in my first battle? An arrow right to the guts, or one that misses and leaves 'em spilling out of me as I stagger across the battlefield?" He's so tall that Olmar's looking right at his tummy as he pats it with his other arm for emphasis. "Or maybe you want my skull crushed just enough so I linger for a few days? Pretty bad when that happens to a man. I hear the flies start gathering on your head before you even stop breathing."

"I hope you eat something bad and you throw up," Olmar says, starting to cry for real. "Or poop yourself."

Thorgil leans his head back and studies him, then flicks his forehead. "You're gonna have a dull life, kid."

Roskva pulls Olmar away and offers the hem of her top skirt to wipe his eyes. "You're disgusting. You know how sensitive he is."

"As for you," Thorgil says, the interest gone from his voice as he moves away, taking off for who knows where, "he's right about those frog kids. Unless your husband-to-be grew a chin since he came to visit us."

"At least he knows how to have a polite conversation that isn't about rotting corpses!" Roskva calls after him. "Don't get your snot on me," she adds to Olmar. "That's so gross."

There's more very polite and boring conversation when the other family comes to visit for a second time. The groom's sixteen now and it's been two years since Roskva saw him last. Olmar laughs at her face when she sees the beard he's started growing in the meantime—it's the kind only grandpas have these days. But it does give him a chin.

Thorgil isn't there to laugh with him this time. He has a hundred things to do, and none of them are being here.

* * *

**_11 / 14 / 17_ **

They leave around the same time when Olmar's eleven. Thorgil to fight and Roskva to be a wife and run another home somewhere. Thorgil goes first, and nobody gets mad at him even though Roskva's wedding is already scheduled. "War waits for no man," he says, and, "You two mind the home front." That's the last thing he says to them, near the end of the farewell feast, and Olmar's the only one who doesn't smile or laugh. He doesn't want to be stuck at home _taking care_ of things like a girl.

He does cry a little when Roskva goes. Maybe it's because it doesn't matter as much when she makes fun of him. Her new family lives a long ways away and they have just as much work keeping everyone busy all the time, and if she talks to him ever again it's going to be by messenger, probably.

"Can't you be a man for once in your life?" she demands, pulling his sleeves down so they're even. It kind of makes him mad, because she's been doing all the girls-only stuff that girls do before the ceremony, and Olmar knows she's only checking in on him because he doesn't count as a man.

He still doesn't want her to go away. "I am being one. I'm almost done, I just hafta get ready." Olmar gives a mighty sniff, trying to inhale his face dry again.

"Don't wipe your nose on those cuffs. I made them for you to wear to my wedding, and you're going to wear them even if they're covered in snot."

Olmar wishes she would make fun of him. It's just like with Thorgil. She's so much worse when she's acting serious. "I'm not," he says, wiping his nose carefully with his bare hand.

"Oh, Olmar!" She shoves a cloth into his hand that he doesn't even recognize. It could be anything, there's so much cloth around today. "Use that. Try to look nice before things start. You're supposed to be showing my new family everything I have to offer."

Olmar wipes his nose. He still can't tell what it's supposed to be. It doesn't look like anything Roskva could've made. She's probably pretending she did, though. "Are you gonna come visit ever?"

"I'm going to have my own life, you know. I won't have time to come back here. Nothing gets done without the lady of the house."

"What if we really, really have to talk about something?"

"When has that ever happened?" Her lips twitch for a second, not in a smile. "Look, this is how the world works. People can't be together all the time."

"Maybe I don't like the world."

"Well," says his sister, turning away, "there's no other one to go live in. You're going to have get used to it someday."

It's easy for her to say. She and Thorgil are the ones going off to live in different worlds where Olmar doesn't get to see them anymore. Nobody ever asks what he wants, they just tell him how the world's supposed to be. And that he's lucky he gets to be in charge of the farm someday. Like that's going to change anything. At least Thorgil gets to make his own rules.

The thing he hates most is how _small_ everything is here. There's nothing and nobody here except the farm and his family, and nobody cares about anything, either, except for the stupid farm and his stupid family. He can't be really good with a sword yet, of course, because he's not allowed to have a real one. But as soon as he is, he's going to start working on getting really good. He can handle just about anything Thorgil can. And as soon as he proves that, he'll be able to go where he wants and do what he wants, no matter what anyone tries to say.


End file.
